The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (51 page)

The feeling faded, and there was silence. The fog drifted past her slowly, reminding her that it was in truth a cloud that was dragging itself across the mountain’s rough face.

She took a few more steps forward and felt it again—there.

Her mouth was dry. The pit of her stomach was as taut as a drum. The urge to turn and flee caught her by the throat and she took a step back. Her sword shook. This was no game. That demon had stood over fifteen feet tall. Had it sensed her? Was it raising its head even now, turning its great horns from side to side as it tried to fix her location?

She would not run.
She would not run
. This was her last chance. She had fled the tournament field, and she had fled the demon during its first attack, but she would not flee now. Not until she had secured its attention for sure.

Kethe forced herself to take a step forward. Then a second.

The itch remained. Upslope a bit, to her left, not too far. She bit her lower lip and approached, moving slowly, trying to avoid stepping on dry branches or rustling the dead leaves. She reached out and grasped the trunks of slender saplings to help her climb. She could barely breathe from the fear.

The ground rose and then peaked. A ridge? The itch was growing stronger. It wasn’t moving. Had it sensed her yet?

She gained the top and fought the urge to drop to her stomach and crawl forward. Moving slowly, wishing she were a ghost, she stepped forward and then stopped. The ground dropped away suddenly into a deep hollow at whose end a cave was carved into the mountain in the form of a deep, diagonal slash. The darkness under the beetling brow of stone was absolute.

The demon was inside. She knew it like she knew her own name. It was resting away from the light of day. It hadn’t felt her yet, hadn’t moved. She stood swaying, knees weak, holding on to a branch to steady herself. What should she do? Call out? Throw something? She saw a large branch not far from her feet, but she couldn’t move toward it.

What would her father have done?

Slowly, she released the tree, took her sword with both hands, and raised it high overhead. Her father had been fearless and strong.
He’d been a rapist and a murderer
. No, she told herself firmly. He’d been a
warrior
. Shaking, she took a deep breath, held it, and yelled, “Demon! Come out and die!”

Her voice rang off the stone flanks of the hollow. The itch in her mind grew stronger. Her eyes were locked on the cavern entrance. It had heard her; she knew it had. Should she run now?

The darkness swirled. Something was emerging. A black, clawed hand reached out of its depths to clasp an outcropping of stone, and then she saw a hint of horns, the wide gash of its mouth, the massive shoulders and narrow waist.

It stepped out into the weak daylight. Even below her in the hollow as it was, it seemed impossibly huge, a creature alien to this world. Its blank face was all the more terrible for lacking eyes, something she could fix on. It raised that smooth surface of bone up to her and its lips peeled back from its razor-sharp teeth.

Kethe felt her heart seize within her chest. Had she dared summon this monster from its slumber? Had she threatened it? She had to run, now, but she couldn’t look away. As long as it simply stood there, gazing back up at her, she felt mesmerized, paralyzed by her terror.

It stepped clear of the last rock and rose to its full height, extended its muscled arm and pointed a taloned finger at her. Claiming her. Marking her as damned. Kethe took a step back, and it crouched, preparing to spring up at her, each movement slow and graceful, laden with power and lethal intent.

“Run,” Kethe whispered to herself, her voice a horrified whisper. “Run, Kethe. Run!”

The demon roared and leaped. Kethe lunged back, tripped, and fell. She rolled down the steep slope, careening off rocks, battering against trees, and by fortune or instinct managed to come to her feet, blade still in hand, and half-fell half-sprinted down the rest of the slope. The demon crashed into the trees amongst which she had stood but seconds ago, and then she heard it roar and leap again.

Gasping, praying she wouldn’t trip, she reached the narrow trail and tore to her right, following the path back along the small cliff face as fast as she could go. The demon landed behind her once more and came right after. She could hear its passage. There was nothing subtle about its pursuit. The narrow trail she was racing along, however, was too narrow for it; she sensed it move above and behind her, charging along the cliff top.

Kethe’s fear turned into a mad exhilaration. Arms pumping, she opened up her stride. Her whole body was tingling. She was fast, but she had never run like this. She vaulted over rocks, her footing sure, sprinting around the curvature of the path. The demon came after her, bursting through all obstructions. Come, then! Did it think her easy prey?

She broke free of the narrow trail and hit the slope that led to the clearing where her companions were waiting, a final mad dash. There was silence behind her, and then the canopy overhead exploded into a roar of breaking branches as the demon’s leap brought it crashing to the ground like some fell meteor bursting down from the heavens. She felt the very ground shiver as it landed. She glanced back. It was ten yards behind. By the White Gate, only ten yards!

Her confidence left her, and she lowered her chin and ran for all she was worth. Her breaths were the rasp of Elon’s bellows. There: the first of the sapling traps. She angled toward it, raised her blade, and swiped down with all her strength as she sprinted past.

The rope severed. The ten-foot-tall sapling sprang up and smashed into the demon just as it was about to fall upon her. It roared, stumbled, fell behind her once more.

There were two more such traps. She ran on. The fog smothered her, made her feel as if she were running within an illusory world with no end. Her thighs burned. The demon came at her from the side, not close enough for the second trap. She immediately discarded the decision to slow down so as to be able to spring it and ran on to the final tree. The largest of the three, it had taken all of them to bend it down while Wyland secured it.

She heard a hiss of air, and instinct caused her to throw herself into a forward dive. She hit the ground hard, rolled tightly and threw herself forward again as she gained her feet, slashing desperately to the side as she passed the rope.

She landed outstretched on the ground, the impact driving the breath from her. The tree remained bent down. She hadn’t cut through the rope.

The demon reared above her, arm raised high to pound her skull into the ground. Kethe screamed, a primal sound of denial, and lunged to one side to slice at the rope. It gave, and with a
whoosh
the tree sprang up like a catapult right into the demon. It staggered back, shrieking its fury. Kethe didn’t hesitate. She popped back up onto her feet and raced toward the clearing.

The fog thinned, and the trees pulled away. Dead leaves and dirt gave way to bare rock. “It’s coming!” Her scream was ragged, barely intelligible. “Now! Now!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The sword called to Asho. Like the moon to the tides, it pulled on him, made him want to place his hand on its hilt and feel that surging connection once more. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. That rush that had washed over him when he’d stepped out onto Mythgræfen Hold that first time was nothing compared to this. It was almost overwhelming, transfixing him with a sense of potential and possibility. When he held the blade, he felt as if he could hew the world itself in half. He felt inebriated, as if he’d drunk a large cup of firewine on an empty stomach.

His hand kept straying toward the hilt. It was this very awareness of his lack of control that made him fight back, keep his hand clenched in a fist and refuse to succumb.

The ten minutes it took Kethe to draw the demon lasted an eternity. He felt completely alone, so high above the forests below. The wind howled as it rushed down the peak above them and threw itself heedlessly over the cliff’s edge, carving whirls in the fog and filling the air with its lonesome cry. Everything was damp and cold.

He focused on his breathing. That demon was coming their way. It was hard not to remember his terror when he’d faced it last, surprised and panicked in the dark. He could remember with chilling clarity that moment in which he’d had to choose between moving to help Kethe or attacking it directly, risking her life in hope of glory. His blade had bounced from its black hide as if it had struck rock. He’d fallen back, shocked, and had stared in horror as it had chased Kethe into the woods.

Had it been just for glory that he’d risked her life? Alone, wrapped in the fog, Asho stared grimly at the rock behind which he hid and pushed himself to honesty. No, in that moment his pride had held him back. His whole life, she’d mocked and disdained him. That moment had been a test, and he’d allowed his anger to guide his blade, to keep him from moving to protect her. As a result, he’d not only failed utterly to hurt the demon, but he’d spent two days consumed by guilt thinking that she had died.

What manner of man was he? What manner of knight? What had he really accomplished in Lady Kyferin’s service?

Asho clenched his jaw and looked down at the black sword. It was his means to kill the demon. He knew it would pierce its hide. This was his chance to finally prove himself. He would strike the killing blow.

There—a crash. Was that…?—no.

A moment passed and he stiffened, tension coiling within him like an iron snake. That was a roar. Undoubtedly the demon. It was coming. Their plan suddenly seemed like madness. He wiped sweat from his brow, then heard another crash, the sound of an entire tree being riven apart. Was that footfalls?

Kethe suddenly burst into view, running full out, her sword cutting the air with each swing of her arm, blood running down her brow.

“Now!” she screamed. “Now!”

And the demon came after.

Asho rose as it passed him. Even in this dim light, it was terrifying. It was vast, fifteen feet tall and built like a mountain, its flesh not black but leaden gray in the thin daylight, gleaming wetly and stretched taut over its vast musculature. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the thing, each muscle picked out as if it had been flayed and its meat turned gray over time. Massively horned, its maw slavering, it ran into the center of the clearing only to stop as Ser Tiron burst out from his hiding place, fouled sword held aloft, and roared, “For the Black Wolves!”

Asho drew his blade. Power ran down its length from hilt to point, lighting the runes the color of Hell. It felt like an extension of his arm, and the world seemed to grow a fraction more vivid. Terrified, exhilarated, Asho raised it over his head and screamed, “For the Black Wolves!”

He ran forward. Ser Wyland was a large shadow that ran in from the far side. Kethe had turned and backed away, sword held low and at the ready. The demon lowered itself into a crouch, swinging its head from side to side, arms out wide, claws splayed.

They converged on it at the same time, and Asho lost sight of his friends. Holding his blade with both hands, knowing that a shield was beyond useless, he sprinted up to the demon’s flank and swung with all his strength.

His sword’s wicked edge split open its flesh into a black smile. The demon screeched, beset on all sides, and sprang straight up. Asho staggered back, following the arc of its leap as it sailed up thirty feet and latched onto the cliff face above them. Its claws dug into the rocks and sent a spray of them falling and bouncing to the clearing below. Three great wounds had been opened on its thighs and back. It released its grip with one hand and swung out to stare down at them with its sightless, bony facade of a face. Its mouth opened wide, revealing its fearsome fangs, and it roared its fury.

The others fell in line with Asho, gazing up, completely taken aback.

“Fuck me,” said Ser Tiron. “What the Hell do we do now?”

Nobody had time to answer, because the demon let go and fell upon them. They scattered, throwing themselves aside so as to not be crushed, and the ground shook when it hit. Asho threw himself into a roll, came up into a crouch and turned. The demon was impossibly fast. Nothing that large should be able to move so. It swept its fist through the air into Ser Wyland’s large shield. It crumpled and he went down, bowled over like a child. Ser Tiron roared again and ran forward, ducking under a second fist, and dragged his sword across the demon’s stomach, opening up a seeping black wound.